


the rooted bed

by leslieknopedanascully



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 20:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslieknopedanascully/pseuds/leslieknopedanascully
Summary: Reunited in Savannah, James and Thomas struggle to rebuild their relationship.Memory can be cruel, James thinks. Silver-tongued Nostalgia has a habit of rewriting memories, crafting the past into tall tales that instill a longing for something more.





	the rooted bed

_There are no legacies in this life, are there? No monuments, no history, just the water. It pays us, and then it claims us, swallows us whole._

James ruminates on the words of his old friend as he rakes his hoe across the dirt, his muscles aching under the hot Savannah sun. The sea is unforgiving, he thinks, but the land can be too, in its own way. Certainly it is more solid, but stability always comes at a price, and taming the land requires inexhaustible labor. Just beyond the eastern edge of the plantation the land is overgrown and swampy. The ground there is muddy, soft, uneven. Tall oaks drip with long-moss that obscures the river that lies beyond. The ground is lush with greenery, its tendrils threatening to encroach on the eastern edge of the fields.

This is where Captain Flint’s legacy ends. Not on the sea, but on land, swallowed by dirt and sweat and anonymity.

James leans against his hoe, pausing his work to catch his breath, though the air he inhales is far from satisfying. James is no stranger to heat; out in the open sea with the sun reflecting off the open water, standing on deck can be downright unbearable. But even then respite almost always came in the form of a gentle sea breeze or the refreshing spray of a wave crashing against the hull of the ship. The Savannah heat is suffocating, so heavy it feels tangible on James’s skin like the air itself is holding him hostage.

This is what he had always wanted, wasn’t it? To walk away from the sea? To find peace and stability on land?

Of course, the circumstances under which he had arrived on land were not what he had intended. Even so, James cannot help but note the bitter irony in his present longing for the peaceful lull of the sea beneath his feet. Memory can be cruel, he thinks. Silver-tongued Nostalgia has a habit of rewriting memories, crafting the past into tall tales that instill a longing for something more.

  

I.

James and Thomas’s love grew out of words. From the moment they met their opinions clashed, as loud and abrupt as the clang of metal on metal. But their sparring was never malicious; they were too evenly matched, had too much respect for the other’s skill, were too entranced by the other’s form. It was more a dance than a fight, and eventually their days of parrying were punctuated by soft, quiet nights reading aloud to each other. Words, words, words, both spoken and tucked within thick leather binding, pulled James and Thomas together. But when they are reunited after a decade, neither can utter a coherent thought. The closest they come is repeating over and over in breathy whispers, like a religious chant, _It’s you, it’s you, it’s really you_. 

They communicate through touch, clutching at each other desperately, each fearing that the other will somehow slip away if they lose contact for even the briefest moment. Both fear that this is a dream and they will wake up clutching at nothing but memories and sorrow, as each had done on so many restless nights over the past decade.

It is Thomas who finally breaks the spell with a single name that carries with it the question that James has been dreading:

“Miranda?”

The joy falls from James’s face and his look alone says quite enough for Thomas to understand.

“How?” Thomas’s voice is hoarse. “What happened?”

James can’t meet his eyes.

“She was killed. We—I—”

The thought remains unfinished as James is at a loss for how to explain; he doesn’t know where to begin. How to explain the events that led to Miranda’s murder, how to explain the events that happened afterwards, events that resulted in the destruction of an entire town and quite nearly his own destruction.

“There will be time for the details later.” Thomas holds James’s hand in his, brushing his fingers across James’s knuckles. The gesture is familiar, but the calluses on Thomas’s hand are not. “Just tell me, were you with her? All those years, were you together?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Was she happy?”

James inhales sharply. The question demands a simple yes or no but neither response feels adequate on James’s lips.

“We were together.” 

Thomas nods, his fingers still brushing James’s hand in rhythmic circles. Silence falls between them.

  

II.

 There are small moments when an inflection in Thomas’s voice or an absentminded gesture of his transports James to London ten years prior. But there are other moments when James looks at Thomas and finds him almost unrecognizable. His speech is rougher, his complexion ruddier. He smells different. He’s more muscular. James often finds himself just staring at him, still unable to believe that they are alive and together, that the man before him is really, truly his Thomas.

The convicts sleep in a large room with whitewashed walls and rows and rows of cots. Thomas swaps his cot for one in the corner, next to the one James claims. They push their rickety little beds side-by-side and spend every night with their bodies curled together. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement; often James, in his sleep, will roll onto the crack between the cots and then will awake in the middle of the night, his body slightly wedged between the two beds. But the occasional discomfort is a small price to pay for the bliss of sleeping in Thomas’s arms.

When James awakes after his first night at the plantation he forgets that he is in Savannah. In his grogginess, he thinks he is in his cabin on the _Walrus_ , and when he turns his head to see the face that belongs to the tanned, muscular arms around him, he expects to see a head of black curls nestled in his shoulder. When he instead sees Thomas, he stares and stares and stares until his eyes adjust and he is certain that he isn’t dreaming. It’s disorienting, for only months ago he had vividly dreamed that he was in Thomas’s arms, but awoke to the sound of the ocean, black curls tickling his face, and an unpleasant ache in his chest.

James sighs. Around him, the other men are rising from their cots to start their day, and James knows that he ought to join them. He begins to wonder if he will ever truly feel content but then Thomas kisses his neck and his anxieties are quelled, if only for a few moments.

 

III.

As the days pass James attempts to tell Thomas his story. It is a slow process; every sentence trails off into an ellipsis. He finds that it is easier to describe people rather than events. So he tells Thomas of his partnership with Eleanor Guthrie, of his rivalry with Charles Vane, of his and Madi’s long conversations about philosophy and revolution. On one occasion he begins to tell Thomas about Gates, but when Thomas inquires about James’s use of the past tense James says “He died.” with sufficient finality in his tone to put an end to the conversation. They of course speak of Miranda, but when they do they speak of London, of the Miranda they both knew.

Thomas does ask questions as he listens to James’s tales, but even so James is familiar enough with Thomas’s inquisitiveness to know that he is holding back. His unspoken questions linger in unfinished sentences, in the quiet that follows James’s words, in looks Thomas gives him when he thinks he isn’t looking. It is everything that remains unspoken that leaves James unable to finish his sentences.

And then there is the man whose name sticks in James’s throat. He tells Thomas just enough to provide a scant explanation of how he came to Savannah. But beyond that, he cannot find the words to describe the man with whom, for a time, he had become synonymous. It is  _him_  whom James longs to speak of the most, if only he knew how.

 

IV.

James and Thomas fall into a comfortable pattern, spending as much of their time together as their circumstances allow. The other convicts hardly pay them any mind when they touch each other with absentminded affection or when they steal a kiss before beginning their long day of work. In a place like this, very few feel that they have the right to cast judgment on others. And though the identities of the high-profile convicts are as fiercely guarded as the men themselves, the legacies of the convicts’ past lives often finagle their way into the plantation gates. And everyone knows that the notorious Captain Flint is not someone you want to cross.

But men of myth always appear small upon close scrutiny and within weeks of James’s arrival whispers arise that James, who dutifully follows orders and is amiable enough to the other convicts, is not the infamous Captain Flint. The perpetuator of these whispers is a quarrelsome man who was sent to the plantation by his wealthy family when people began to suspect foul play in the circumstances surrounding his wife's death (or so the rumors say).

On one particularly hot day, hot enough to make any man irritable just by virtue of standing in the sun, this quarrelsome man was acting especially belligerent, provoking the guards with taunting words. At midday, the belligerent man catches sight of James and Thomas under the shade of a tree taking advantage of the short respite allotted to the men, James’s head resting in Thomas’s lap. Those standing nearby cannot distinguish the words the man mutters as he passed James and Thomas, but all can guess at their meaning. 

James is on his feet in one instant, the man splayed out on the ground in the next. Rage commands James’s every muscle; his fist collides with the man’s face once, twice, and then again and again and again. It takes three men to pull James off the man, but James isn’t subdued until he catches sight of Thomas standing under the tree, his expression devastatingly impassive. James’s heart sinks; he almost wishes that Thomas had met his eyes with horror or revulsion. Defeated, he allows the hands grasping at him to pull him away from the bloodied man in the dirt. 

 

V.

“Are you all right?” James asks Thomas. 

They are sitting on their cot, not long after the incident. Fortunately, the guards so disliked the man James attacked that James faced only half-hearted scolding as his punishment.

Thomas scoffs. “Am _I_ all right?” 

James’s knuckles are red and encrusted with dried blood. He makes a fist and feels the skin crack. Thomas takes James’s clenched fist in his hand.

“Are _you_ all right?”

“Do you remember how _The Odyssey_ ends?”

“James…”

“When Odysseus returns to Ithaca his wife doesn’t recognize him. Twenty years…she waits for him for twenty and when he finally appears before her she doesn’t believe it’s him.”

“Twenty years is a long time. Much longer than we’ve been apart.”

“Ten, twenty…at what point does it make a difference? I became Captain Flint within months.” James sighs. “I know it’s foolish but during the journey to Savannah, whenever I tried to imagine seeing you again, I thought of Penelope. I feared that my past had left such an indelible mark on me that your eyes would skip over me.” 

“That _is_ foolish. Incredibly foolish, in fact.”

This earns a chuckle from James.

“Yes. Yes it was. Nonetheless I felt relieved when you recognized me. But then…then I began to fear something else entirely. I feared that you hadn’t recognized me, but you recognized an idea of me. That for ten years you preserved in your mind the image of the James McGraw you met a decade ago in London, and that you would be reluctant to let go of him. And now I fear what will happen when you become reacquainted with the James McGraw who sits before you, such as he is.” 

Silence sits between the two men for a long moment.

“Do you remember how Penelope recognizes Odysseus?” Thomas finally says. He doesn’t wait for James to answer. “He describes their marriage bed to her. How he built their bedchamber around a olive tree, and how he chopped off the olive tree’s leafy top and from its trunk carved a sturdy bed, rooted firmly in the ground.”

“Are you suggesting that I go out into the woods and build us such a bed?” James says, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Thomas lets out a laugh. “The privacy would be nice, wouldn’t it? No, my point is that it takes more effort to uproot a tree than to allow it to grow. You worry that I have preserved an idealized version of you, but have you not done the same to me? Isn't that what we all do when separated from one whom we love?” Thomas squeezes James’s hand. “You don’t have to protect me, James. Not from some bastard who runs his mouth, and especially not from yourself. Whatever you’ve done…whatever you’re holding back from me, none of it can uproot the love we carved out for ourselves all those years ago.”

Uprooting is not the only way one can kill a tree, James thinks, parasites, diseases...slow, subtle ailments…James shuts out these thoughts. Thomas’s eyes are so bright, his earnestness so familiar and heart wrenching that James can only say, “Yes, you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

Thomas leans in and gives James a soft, sweet kiss. When he pulls away he says, “Though there’s one aspect of your _Odysseus_ analogy that falls short.”

“What’s that?”

“If you're Odysseus and I’m Penelope, then why haven’t I spent the past decade being relentlessly pursued by a hundred handsome suitors?”

James laughs. A deep laugh that shakes his whole body, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in quite a while. Thomas laughs too and for a moment at least, James feels at peace.

 

 

 

 


End file.
